


Pari

by pigsflew



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:38:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigsflew/pseuds/pigsflew
Summary: The backstory of my FFXIV OC, Kamila Suri.





	1. An Accidental Immigrant

**Author's Note:**

> Many characters in this are my own; this story is meant to work around and into existing FFXIV canon. The main character, Kamila Suri, is *not* the Warrior of Light, nor are her parents or other companions or caretakers. This is a story of war, loss, family, and determination. The setting and any named tagged characters belong to Square Enix.
> 
> This story assumes that Thavnair is largely equivalent to real-world Indian cultures, which spills over into the Ananta in Ala Mhigo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger from distant Thavnair arrives in Ala Migho as protection detail to a trading ship, unaware that this was his last stop.

Fair skies and following seas graced the _Radz-at-Han kee Krpa_ ; Tapan sat upon the upper deck of the trading ship, re-oiling his _khanda_ to protect the blade from rusting in the ocean air. With any luck he would not need it, but their hold contained a wealth in silks that was simply too great a prize not to protect. The blade was light but strong, and its edge held true, for a boon. The _pari_ , however, was scuffed, its ornamentations tarnished; it had seen better days. No matter. The shield was sturdy, and despite its visible wear would protect him yet. He felt the gentle breeze, and timed his motions with the roll of the ocean under them. It seemed like he had only just started this mindful work, but soon the daylight darkened under approaching clouds.

The watchman pierced Tapan’s concentration with a sharp cry, summoning hands to their work. No one was idle long on the _Krpa_ ; Tapan slipped his sword and shield to their place at his waist and glanced to the prow at the small but growing sliver of gold on the horizon: _Ala Mhigo_. At last, they would arrive in Eorzea. Tapan’s stomach already rumbled for real food.

He raced to the lower deck to fulfill his duties. None aboard would notice until it was too late, that the city’s silhouette was marred by billowing plumes of black smoke.

* * *

“I will take Prasad and Gita and we will scout on ahead.” Tapan stood as tall as he could, towering over even Rajesh, their captain. At sea he was the leader. Here, with danger about, Tapan had authority. “The rest of you will stay with Jai and Rajesh, lower the sails, and protect yourselves. Do not let anyone close, without our signal, which Jai will know. We will return as soon as we have a place to go.”

Tapan did not wait for a response; he turned on his heel and stepped into the landing craft, followed closely by his companions. They were all tense, coiled as they were, knowing that ahead lay a battlefield, against an enemy they knew not. It was hard to ever consider Tapan a violent man, yet here his blood fair sang in anticipation, and he shifted to keep his muscles loose. He noticed that Gita followed suit, only she clutched her katars, already ready for the fight ahead. Meanwhile Prasad muttered indistinctly, the sound soothing and invigorating. He, too, was ready.

As the shore approached Tapan saw it was dotted with figures. Unarmed. Civillians, young and old, running from the fighting at the city walls. He also saw four men in gilded purple armor giving chase. “Tapan,” Prasad looked up, fingers curled around his small ceremonial _kirpan_. “We cannot allow them to reach the innocents.”

Gita said nothing, but her look spoke loudly of grim determination. Tapan nodded. “Pick up your staff, my friend. Let’s go and meet them.” With that, he turned, and sprang from the landing craft.

He picked up speed as he ran, drawing up his _Khanda_ and _Pari_ both, eventually skipping across the sand, feet barely touching the ground. The moment they finally laid eyes on him, he launched himself into the air, letting out a cry loud enough that they all snapped attention to him. Circling his _khanda_ over his head, he made himself a wild spectacle, while becoming water--slipping around and past them, occasionally blocking their swords and letting his _pari_ ring out with a crash. They could not ignore him, or he would kill them. But by not ignoring him, Gita’s katars could cut them down. Now that he’d turned their attention away, she came at them from behind, slipping a blade beneath their ribcage, through the backs of their legs, or sinking it into their neck; spilling their blood on the sand. Before they understood their predicament, the fight was over, the soldiers sprawled, groaning now that they could no longer fight. The three intended no cruelty; Gita did not permit them to suffer long. They stood among their slain foes, watching and listening for the next ones. No more came. Tapan turned, then, to the innocents.

“Thank you,” said a woman. “Everything’s gone mad,” another sobbed.

“They wore the gryffin’s colors.” came Prasad’s voice, adjusting his turban after finishing completing the mantra that had kept Tapan’s dangerous dance from turning into his own demise.

Tapan’s expression spoke volumes; he’d fair forgotten the colors of this distant land, and in his haste to fulfill his moral obligations, they had slain members of the _Ala Mhigan royal guard!_

“They’ve gone crazy! They’re killing us, all of us!” The first woman barely contained her desperation. She visibly forced herself to calm, them spoke evenly, “you must guide us to safety. Please, you must protect us.”

 _Of course they must._ “What is your name?” Tapan asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Syhrwyb,” she replied, her voice suddenly even.

“Sir-web,” Tapan repeated, “Make sure they all stay with us. We’re going back to the ship, it’s plain there is no safety here.” They would pull the _Krpa_ ashore, and arm any who could hold a sword to patrol the beach, and the ship would live up to its name, the _Mercy of Radz-at-Han_.

They would take on over seventy men, women, and children that night, and for the following four weeks of fighting, Tapan and his fighters, along with Syhrwyb and any capable of taking up arms, would defend each other from the worst of it, until sanity won out--Theodric was defeated, and Ala Migho's citizens, returned inside the walls to lick their wounds and clean up the mess. The  _Krpa_ was damaged. It would take time before they could leave, so Tapan would stay with Syhrwyb and her family while they waited--and before long he had a small, but nevertheless convincing, reason to stay.  
  
They named him Kamaal.  _Perfect_.

But before he could ever set eyes upon his child, fighting broke out anew, an invasion taking advantage of the weakened nation. He hid them as Garlemald's machines of war descended upon the city, their metal joints cracking stone and bone alike. He didn't come back.

Syhrwyb would remember him with regret and fondness in equal measure; she would have other lovers, eventually, but theirs was a bond of desperation against an insane world, a measure of defense when society itself would defend none.


	2. To Raise a Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kamila is sent away from the city.

The girl ran her hands over the fabrics at market, her mother pausing in her haggling with a Ananta merchant to call out, "Not silk, little one. Cotton, for strength." She knew what her mother was looking for; it was the same type of cloth she always bought--a few yards of plain, simple cotton, to repair their clothing with and sew new clothes for the child when she inevitably outgrew the old ones.

Her clothes were a patchwork of old fabric and new, but they were sturdy, inexpensive, and designed to billow in just the right ways to keep her cool and covered against the desert heat. Her mother was a practical woman, and they were not wealthy; Garlean rule did not permit them much freedom to acquire the wealth for luxury. This wasn't odd for an Ala Mighan child, what was odd was the old circular shield on her back, pitted with use, and studded on the inside with a single piece of crystal. Her father's shield.  
  
Not... without placing Kamaal in danger. Syhrwyb had seen the children of collaborators--spat at, abused--one girl was even nearly stoned to death. The danger was not past; the city's malcontent would boil over one day, possibly soon.

The girl brought the fabric to her mother, who still faced the snake-woman. "Please take care of him." Syhrwyb then turned to the child. "You have to be strong now," she said, taking the proffered fabric and wrapping it around the child's shoulders and body, then placing lifting him into her cart. "Don't move or speak until she says to. Do as she tells you and I'll see you again, as soon as I can."

The girl's eyes well up but she says nothing. She's going somewhere. With this merchant. Her mother isn't coming with her. Be strong. She sits backwards, nods, and her mother places fabric over her--and the world goes dark.

And then the dark goes, too. And then she's somewhere... else. "Tapan!" a voice shouts. It's... her mother. Her mother's memory. She's seen this before.

He's tall, with dark skin like hers, and an unruly shock of black hair. He has that shield strapped to his arm, and he turns. "Please take care," he says, and then, "I'll see you again, as soon as I can." In her mind, the girl is screaming, but can do nothing to alter the past. This time, mercifully, the next hours were passed over, until it was just her mother, picking through bodies, and retrieving that shield from the ground. Something in the shield glinted.

The vision changed, then, suddenly, wrenching her away from the memory. When her eyes opened, the carriage was moving, slowly taking her away from her mother, the city--everything.

* * *

"Be Ssstill, girl!" Garima wiped at Kamila's face, clearing it of mud. "Tracking thisss muck everywhere--it'sss a wonder that your sisssters do not ssshun you."

The eight year old giggles, kicking her legs as her scaled surrogate tries to get her clean. "Teach me to usse your bow, Gama," she says, using the nickname she formed that first trip out of Ala Migho together. The girl's speech is still mostly like other striders, but she has gained a sibilant 'S' as her only interactions are with the Vira.

"You would become a battlemaiden, child? And what of thisss?" Garima places a finger on the girl's shield. "Regardlesss--thisss bow is unssuited to handss so... sssmall." Garima laughs, and Kamila's eyes go wide.

"You mean I can have my own?"

"Not ssso fasst--you will collect the branch to make it, and you will learn the magic to maintain it." But the girl was already bouncing up and down, anticipation destroying her concentration. Garima smiled, then. The girl would learn to hunt, along with the other young. Strider or no, she was a child, and they were not so different, after all.


End file.
